Now I Know
by TLRAMP
Summary: Yeah, my second m/r. Kait is proud, I'll bet. :-) I started this 'cause I had writer's block with my other story. lol So be kind. Rated R b/c of strong romantic themes and (duh!) m/r stuff. Oh, it's RENT, if you didn't already guess. :-)
1.

****All characters belong solely to Jonathan Larson. Don't let my screwed up ideals and notions change how you view RENT. ::smile:: Besides, I'm only doing this b/c of Kait – blame her! Hehe Okay, all lyrics that I decide to use (if I do so) are from Anthony Rapp's song "Now I Know" (hence the title) or from my own mind. Who knows where this is going. It's just something to do while I've got writer's block on my other story. Oh yeah, if you didn't already know, this is m/r. So, yeah, I get veeee-eery romantic later on here, so BEWARE – fair warning has been given. ::innocent smile::****

"Now I Know" 

CHAPTER I: **"What The Hell Is Wrong With Me?"**

"Shut the fuck up, Mark!" Roger cried as his lithe hands were placed against my chest, propelling me into the wall with full force. "Just shut up and get the hell away from me!"

I huffed in my corner, feeling my head spin dizzily. "I-I didn't mean to –"

"That's the problem with you, Mark! You never _mean_ anything."

My face became angered with rage and I began to pull myself from the wall. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Roger?"

Roger's eyes blazed with…hate? He stepped closer to me, his face inches from mine. "Exactly what I said," he spewed, challenging me with that dark stare of his.

I shrank away, finding comfort in the folding chair only feet from him. I couldn't reply – couldn't make a sound…. I felt my head float away and bright colors swam before my eyes. What happened to cause all this? I told Roger off because he left Mimi to die. He ran off to Santa Fe, leaving a very sick Mimi to die on the streets, as none of us ever wanted her to. He didn't even come back for her funeral. It's been six months since she died and he returned and has been living with me again since. There's been a tension between us all this time and only now did it choose to present itself and flair in my head.

"I meant every word I said, Roger," I whispered bravely, my eyes glued to my feet, clad in torn tennis shoes.

I felt him approach me from behind and I shivered, wavering, letting my eyes close as I prepared to receive a blow to the back of my head. "How would you know what I did or did not mean to do, Mark?"

"I can tell. We've been friends for how many years now, Roger?" I asked, turning desperately to look at him.

"_Friends_ don't say those things," he growled. "_Friends_ would understand."

"What's there to understand, Roger? You left Mimi to die because you needed a break and you couldn't stand to see someone close to you leave your poor, wounded soul! You ran away and left all of us alone to deal with your problems, and I tried to help as best I could and forget about it, but things don't always turn out so magically, as in the movies, pal – reality is not a soap opera."

He leaned down, his dark eyes narrowing as bits of his dirty blonde hair fell into his face. "_Reality_, Mark?" He laughed a laugh to make me quiver and back away. As I attempted to move from his reach, his hand shot out, gripping at my right elbow with such ferocity that I could feel the very blood in my veins slowing drastically. "_Reality_? The day Mark Cohen understands reality is the day that he steps out from behind that camera!"

"Let me go!" I cried, squirming, but he persisted tightly. "So what if I hide? So do you!"

"Fuck you!"

"You do. You choose to hide behind that mask of music. Don't want to admit it? Fine, I will – I'm a chicken shit, a hypocrite; I admit!" He shoved my arm away and started to bolt from the room, but I called him back. "For someone who's always been deprived, who refuses to just live alive?" The words are harsh, but exactly what he needs. So I think.

He spun around with a defeated look – I know I've reached him. But, never the one to give in, he speaks, his voice trembling with hurt, "For someone who wants to film reality, who doesn't even have a sense of his _own_ dimensionality?"

Damn it! I winced from where I stood, taken completely aback by his attack on me. He knows exactly how to push my buttons. I stormed over to him, pushing my hands against his chest with all my might – which is fairly weak – and he grabbed me, squeezing my arms until they burned, but I didn't give up. "Goddamn you Roger! I'm just trying to help!"

"Help? Is that what you call it, 'cause where I come from it's call hurting!" He heaved me away with one mighty push. We stood opposite one another, our eyes locked in a fiery glare that could melt the thickest block of ice. "Don't you get it, Mark – that I don't _need_ you?" he asked with such calmness that I was shocked into denial, shaking my head. "Yeah, that's right. I don't need Mark Cohen to baby-sit me like I'm some bratty toddler who can't have his ice cream until he's been good. Screw you, Mark. I can get along without your constant reminders that I'm nothing and that my music sucks and that I killed Mimi and that I killed April and Angel and am killing Collins and even you – yes, you; the chicken shit hypocrite himself! I'm slowly killing everyone, but I don't need this fuckin' pressure, damn it!" He breathed in heavily, having not taken any breath through that whole speech.

"Are you through?" I asked with coldness in my words.

"No," he retorted swiftly, approaching me like a demented monster, escaped from its cage. "You're such a damn sham that you can't even focus on what's real in life anymore. You see things through that fuckin' camera of yours and forget about life and love and pain and regret and shame and everything else that makes up this hell of a life we all live. You hide and you film. Film and hide: the two words have become synonymous with each other, Mark. You're such a sham that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror anymore!" He raised his hands, as if to push me again.

I stepped up to him courageously, defying him to do something. "Gonna hit me? Push me? Slap me? What this time, Roger? There's no one else here to take out your anger on, so it's gonna be me, right?" I paused, gauging his reaction. It was one of fury. I was pushing the envelope and I knew it. "So what if I try to help sometimes? And so what if I hide? We all hide! The world's too screwed up not to, and you know it. The only reason I help you is because you can't help yourself. You're vulnerable and you can't admit that!"

"Shut up, Mark!" he cried angrily. "I can too take care of myself! I don't need your constant reminders to take my AZT and to eat and to breathe and to take a shit! I just – don't – need – _you_."

I stepped closer to him, getting in his face. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a needle – used and slightly dingy. "You don't need me, huh? Then, explain this." I shoved it in his hands.

His eyes registered shock, widening in disbelief. It was then that I knew it wasn't a friend of his who'd stashed it in his drawer by accident. Roger was using again.

"Where the hell did you get this?" he asked, growling.

"I –"

"So you go through my shit now, too, Mark?" he accused, tossing the needle to the floor. It slid underneath the table. "You've run out of things to criticize and 'help' me with, so you had to go hunting for new dramas? Is that it?" He pushed me against the wall again, with more force than before. I found myself fighting his hands away. "You snoop through my personal stuff without my opinion and you try to turn things around and blame _me_? Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you!" I cried, beating him away through tears that only now began to fall. He pushed me again. I was losing it…. "Fuck you and fuck your secrets and lies, Roger! I've seen the stash that's hidden in your guitar case! I've seen the way you wander around dazed at night, stumbling into your bedroom at 4AM and stinking of booze and drugs and sex and whatever the hell else you're into that I don't know about!" Another shove came, harder as he took out the remainder of his aggression. "You wanna beat me for your sins? Go for it!" He did, knocking me to my knees. I looked up at him as blood trickled down from my thin lips, through tear-filled vision, blocked only by my glasses, which I had to push up. "Feel better now, Roger? Feel like you've accomplished something? Beating on someone who weighs about twenty pounds less than you doesn't make you stronger – it only makes you sadder and stupider for it." He glared at me, leaning down and picking me up by my collar. Before I knew what I was saying, the words slipped, "I can't help that I want to protect you Roger! Damn it, I love you." The rage in his eyes died away until they were flickering with despair and regret. The way those dark orbs traced the outline of my form – bruised and weakened before him – brought a series of shivers tracing down my spine. I felt my entire body quiver as he looked at me. It was then that I realized what I'd said.

I love you. Such simple words. Had I meant to say them in such a way as I implied to Roger? The way I felt thinking about it – queasy and unbalanced – made me regret ever letting the words flow from my mouth, but another feeling surfaced, causing me to rethink everything about my life thus far – my pulse was racing and my palms were sweating like hell. Those tears in my eyes weren't because of the pain – although Lord knows it was horrible to endure; they were from anxiety and repressed emotions. All this time, I've loved this man before me, and I never even knew it!

I saw him tremble as a hunger replaced that abandoned gaze. My voice hoarse with emotions, I let myself repeat the words, "I love you."

God, how right it felt now! I love you, I love you, _I love you_! I could've shouted them from rooftops if I hadn't been shaking like a little puppy that'd been out in the rain too long. I wanted to take Roger in my arms; forget that I'd seen those drugs, forget that we'd been arguing, and forget what I'd said to him in the heat of the moment – I just wanted to touch his face, to feel his lips…. I didn't realize my yearning showed until he started to back away, conscious of the word's double meaning – I not only loved him as a best friend, but now as I would a lover.

I stepped forward and reached my trembling hand out, laying it over his cheek. His eyes closed and he stopped in his backtracking, breathing heavily as he wetted those thick lips of his. As I took another step closer, he straightened, stumbling away from me to the other side of the room. The distance between us was more than the length of the room – it was as if there was a wall between our souls now.

"What the hell, Mark?" he asked with a confused air. I stood, stupefied and humiliated. He stammered some more words that swirled through my head, but all I could think was, 'God, how pathetic! How stupid, how wrong, how unbelievably erroneous, Cohen!'

"I-I didn't mean it," I found myself stuttering, aimlessly groping for words. But, I _did_ mean it!

As if he read my thoughts, he breathed heavily, glaring at me. "You wouldn't have said it if you hadn't meant it, Mark…." He swallowed nervously. "I think you're confused…. I'm not – "

"Oh, oh I know," I replied with a shrug, shivering. "Me neither. I meant it differently than you're taking it, Roger. I mean it as friends. I love you like a…" I searched for the right word. Lover. Husband. Other half. Fiancé. The sexual God that you are! "…Brother," I ended up choosing, despite my heart's heavy protests.

Roger gawked at me, motioning to where I'd caressed his cheek. "Then what the hell was that?" I faltered, stumbling for a reply, but he cut me off quickly. "Are you gay?!"  
The way he asked it made me cringe in hopeless misery. Was I gay? Hell, I didn't even know! I didn't even guess anything of that sort until two seconds ago! Did he think I was always like this – touching men in "that way"? I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs, 'No! I'm not!', but at the same time I knew how right it felt to be that close to him. My emotions tangoed with fervor, fighting over which extreme I'd select. "I-I dunno…."

"The hell you don't!" he cried, moving around the table that separated us until he was standing before me – not as close as before, I noted. "I can see it in your eyes, Mark. You're thinking something and you're trying to decide what I want – or need – to hear. Stop thinking and just decide, damn it! If you're gay, tell me, 'cause I'm more than slightly unnerved here."

"I don't know, Roger." He groaned, getting ready to turn away. I grabbed his arm, but we both looked down at the contact between us, making me release just as swiftly. I was a jumble of nerves. "I honestly don't know!"

He stood looking at me for a full minute; silent in whatever ponderings he was turning over in his mind. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, he dropped his gaze and headed into the bathroom. I stood still then, wavering slightly in agony. Was he coming back? This thing wasn't resolved yet…was it? Thoughts were spinning through my mind. How right it felt to love Roger that way, but how wrong it felt when he looked at me in condemnation and disapproval. I slid into the folding chair again and let my eyes stare off into space – I zoned. Feeling slightly chilled, I wrapped my arms around my body and rubbed myself, sending heat spreading through my shoulders and into the rest of me. I glanced over my shoulder towards the bathroom and I saw Roger's back as he was bent over, searching for something. I turned back – least he catch me gawking at his behind and get any more ideas about my confused sexuality. Damn it! Why did this have to happen to me? Mark Cohen _can't_ be gay. I mean, I loved Maureen, didn't I? And that cute little blonde at those CBGB's gigs that Roger took all those years ago – remember her, Mark? You've slept with _women_, Cohen. Don't be a moron and turn into a faggot. I suddenly felt resentment towards that word. How harsh it sounded now to my bruised ears.

"You might need this," came a soft voice to my right. I looked up in a jerky motion, nearly falling off my chair, seeing Roger there, holding out a small scrap of cloth that once belonged to one of his mother's rags for washing. He steadied me with a laugh, squatting down before me and reaching out to dab my lips with the cloth, staining its white fibers with red. I flinched slightly at the contact, nervous and unsure, but he persisted with a gentle gleam in his eyes. "I guess I kinda went too far, there, huh?"

I nodded slowly, aloof. "Yeah." I felt my breath quicken with every moment he was near. Shit, control yourself Mark.

He noticed my unease and handed me the small towel. "Here, you can finish cleaning yourself." He paused, not knowing what to do, and then finally settled back, sitting before me Indian style. "I'm really sorry, Mark."

"Huh? Oh…. I'm all right. I heal fast."

"No, I mean about those things I said to you – I had no right."

I nodded, letting my gaze fall. "Well, I can't say that they didn't hurt, but for what it's worth, most of them were right." I set the cloth down on the table, studying my shoes again. "But, I can't apologize for what I said. I meant every word." Wow, brave, Mark. Keep it up and you'll get another black eye.

Roger sighed, letting his eyes rise to meet mine, almost timidly. "I'm not using, Mark…"

"What?" I cried, nearly jumping from the chair. "You can't tell me that that needle is –"

"It's a friend of mine's. Sometimes we trade guitars on the rode… It's crazy out there."

"Why were you so defensive about my finding it then?"

"I don't know…. I just felt like I had no privacy or anything. I mean, you're always reminding me to do things, always checking up on me to make sure I'm okay, always ranting…"

I nodded with a cock-eyed smile. "Yeah…. Sorry. I just wanted to help 'cause I…" I allowed my voice to trail off. We both knew what I was going to say, however.

"Yeah…" he replied softly, lowering his gaze again. "About what you said earlier…"

I gulp. "What about it?"

"Were you completely serious? I mean… I didn't know you were… I mean…umm… You're not… uhh…"

"I don't know, Roger," I replied, somewhat defensively, wrapping my arms around myself again.

"Not that there's anything wrong with it…. I just wanted to know." He seems nervous and I become upset slightly. What the hell is he nervous about?

"Yeah, well, when I figure it out, I'll fill you in," I retorted coldly, standing to leave. Before I could make it two feet, I felt Roger's hand on my shoulder and I halted, freezing in position. His touch was so gentle, so soothing, so…not Roger. I turned, feeling intense emotions surging through my chest as I found my eyes gazing into his like I never thought I would. Everything was so different. He was so afraid and so vulnerable. So was I. "Yeah?" I found myself asking with little less than a hard breath.

"Umm…." He retracted his hand, turning away, his shoulders drooping. "Never mind." He started to walk away.

Like a never-ending carousel, I grabbed his arm, attempting to get him to face me again. "No. What?"

"Nothing. I said never mind." His voice was rising slightly.

I should've stopped there, right? But I'm an idiot sometimes and I never know when to let things be. I spun him around to face me and I held his eyes steadily. "What is it?"

"I said, it's nothing, Mark! Geez, why don't you ever let things the fuck alone?" He was up in my face now, angry again and I shrank slightly.

"S-sorry," I stammered. "Don't hit me," I found myself whimpering. I guess I could take no more. I was a wreck anyway.

He must've sensed my disturbance and terror for I could feel him easing before me. I looked up to find that his eyes were surveying me as they had earlier – with a timid (and yet powerful) look that words couldn't describe. Before I knew it, his hands were caressing my jaw line with a tenderness that will never be matched as his eyes continued to wander over my skin. My heart seemed to beat a mile a minute and it was all I could do to control the urge to push forward and pull him into my arms. I kept telling myself to chill and stay calm – relax, Goddamn it! But, those thoughts were all in vain the moment he laid his hands on me. I never imagined it would feel so good to have him be like this with me. I never thought of Roger like this…or had I? I seemed to recall, in that instance, being considerably jealous of Mimi all those many months ago. I'd even spoken to Collins about it, but nothing ever happened, and when she died, I dropped the whole thing, focusing on Roger's problems, sort of letting mine fade into the background like a bad film shot.

I felt Roger's hands moving to the back of my neck, tracing the tender skin there and I shivered. His eyes opened – damn, I didn't realize they'd closed! – and he looked so helpless and scared. "Shit," he muttered, retracting his hands and holding them out in front, as if he didn't know what else to do. "I'm…uhh… sorry…. I don't know why I did that…. Shit," he repeated softly, shaking his head. Those blonde locks fell into his eyes. "I didn't mean to –"

I looked to him with so much love filling my bright, dancing eyes, and whispered a reply: "It's okay. I mean, I don't mind… Shit, I mean, it's not like you've done something wrong." I paused, shaking my head too. God, I can be such a child sometimes. "I liked it."

He looked startled then, and for a moment I regretted saying anything at all. Geez Cohen, why did you have to go and screw it all up like that? Couldn't you just be happy letting him touch you without squirming like a worm through the dirt? "The weird thing is," he replied quietly, "I did, too."

Our eyes were locked – such an intense minute of silence and wonder. I remember thinking that he looked so young and naïve at that moment, and I must've looked petrified – I was! I'd never been in this kind of situation before and it freaked the hell out of me. What if it was wrong? What if I wasn't gay after all? What if I was? What if I was in love, completely head-over-heals, for Roger? What if he didn't like me? What if we kissed? What if I wanted to kiss and he didn't? What if I was too scared to make the first move? What if he was? What if this ended our friendship? What if it kindled the flame that's been inside us both for so long? What if…?

Luckily, I didn't have much time to ponder what to do; Roger and I had closed the small gap between our bodies and were breathing over each other gently. His breath was so comforting then – like waves of musical ocean water against the backdrop of a fallen sun. I hardly realized that we were moving in for a kiss, both of us steadily gaining closer to the other's lips. I faintly realized that his hand was tracing my arm and that my own hand had risen and was running through those thick tendrils of his hair. I parted my lips slightly as pallid eyelids were exposed and lashes fluttered to rest on my pale cheeks. His hand slid up my shoulder, over my neck and came to rest on my cheek, cupping it and pulling it towards him. Damn, he was so experienced with this stuff, and I was so innocent to most everything. Our lips brushed against each other so many times that I lose count. I remember panting, my chest heaving with longing and lust, my eyelids twitching, threatening to open so that I could watch his face melt into mine. I remember trembling and hearing Roger's voice coo whispered words of courage to me, which seem to escape me now. Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore – I pushed forward, parting my lips further, begging him to do the same. Our lips met and I felt a tremor of pleasure race through my body. My head was spinning, I was reeling, I was floating, falling, dancing, spinning, spiraling – I was alive!

"Fuck," I barely heard him whisper as he pulled swiftly away, leaving me alone and cold. The heat of the moment rushed out from my body, leaving me with a cold blanket of ice surrounding me. "Fuck…."

I remained silent. What the hell could I say? I wanted to run over to him and just tell him to trust it and feel it and let everything work itself out, but how could I when I wasn't even sure I was doing the right thing? I felt so damned confused and alone that I couldn't even bring myself to reply to him. I was barely breathing, barely moving, barely alive then.

He didn't say anymore; he only gave me one last glance and fled from the room, out into the dark night. I stood for a long time there, just standing. Thinking. Pondering. Waiting. Would he come back? Was he gone for good this time?

The question of the day: what the hell is wrong with me?


	2. 

CHAPTER II:

****Kait: Yes, in answer to your beautiful proposal (::sarcasm:: my parents will be sooo proud) and I'd like googleberry muffins (if you've seen Zaboomafoo, you'd understand). ::giggles, smoothing out wedding dress in preparation:: ;-) **** CHAPTER II: The Outcome of My Doings PART I: I Woke Up To See Your Face Again 

I sat on the folding table's top just pondering the events of the past few hours for the next half of the night. It had already been late when Roger left, and soon I found myself glancing at my watch. 1AM. 2AM. 4AM – No Roger.

It was getting late and I barely realized that I was dozing off. I hardly felt my eyelids closing of their own accord and my breathing slowing to a defeated lethargic movement. I felt myself lean back and settle on the table. Just a few more minutes and Roger'll be home, I kept telling myself. Just a few more minutes….

I walked into the loft at about 4:39AM. I was expecting to see Mark sitting up on the table waiting for me or sleeping soundly in his room – safely away from harm's reach. What I saw was a mixture of both – Mark asleep on the table, curled up in a ball with his arms wrapped around himself. His bright eyes were closed definitely for the night and his chest rose and fell with steady breaths. His pale face was worse than usual, accented only by some familiar bruises that I'd given him earlier. Some dried blood still lingered on his pallid lips, and I watched as his glasses slipped farther down on his straight nose – so familiar and perfect in all its simple beauty. He reminded me then of when I first met him – when he was a little nobody, filming life passing him by, when he was no more than 15. I couldn't help but smile, seeing him so innocent and youthful in that position. God, I loved him more than life.

No, Roger! You don't love him _that way_. He's your best friend and nothing more… But, I couldn't control the rush of emotions as I staggered towards him, moving to stand before the table, leaning over his peaceful form in quiet slumber. I knelt down to his eye level, brushing away some locks of red hair that hung down in his disheveled fashion. I allowed my fingertips to trace his pure, soft skin gently, letting the hardness of my own melt into him. He stirs slightly at my touch, moaning inaudibly and I freeze. What if he wakes up? Shit! Don't let him catch you hovering over him like some sick demented freak that watches his best friend sleep. Oh God, please don't let him wake up!

He shifts positions as some of those long tresses fall into his face. His hair has grown a lot in the months I've been away. After changing his body to a new pose, his lethargic breathing continued dimly. I still knelt before him and still allowed my hand to remain on his white skin. It was making me ache – not being able to touch him or hold him or anything…. But at the same time I knew I couldn't bear if he were to awaken. What would he say to me? What would I say to him? I mean, he's gay… Am _I_ gay?

That question had been haunting me all night long and was the sole reason that I was late coming home – I didn't want to face those eyes of his, asking me without words whether or not I liked the intimate contact between us earlier. Had I enjoyed it? Christ – yes! It was as if it had been meant to be. We'd been the only two people on Earth at that moment, and it seemed that the world was turning just for us. I remember as our lips touched, a feeling of immense satisfaction shocked me into reality, sending waves of shivers down my spine. I couldn't take it. As he pushed forward to deepen the kiss, I freaked out and ran. I couldn't help it – I was so damn scared. Everyone I've ever loved has left me. April, Angel, Mimi – and now what about Mark? If I admitted that I loved Mark, would he leave me too?

"Roger?" I heard the whisper, tickling my ear. I turned to see Mark's eyes opening hazily as he struggled to sit up. His lips curved into a cock-eyed grin and he brushed the hair from his eyes as I retracted my hand cautiously. "Good morning."

I couldn't help but smile – he can be adorable as hell sometimes. "Morning?"

"Well, it's like…" he checked his watch, "…5AM, which qualifies as morning – hence the AM." I nodded, silently, backing up to give him enough room to swing into a sitting position with his legs dangling over the edge of the table. Both our eyes dropped immediately. Neither knew where to start. "So, where'd you run off to?"

"Uhh…I got a few drinks at Liquor Haven." I shrugged, looking up almost timidly (I am never timid). "Sorry…"

He raised his right shoulder, as if to shrug in reply, but when he looked up, he didn't complete the gesture. "It's okay."

"No… It's not…."

"Roger, let's not –"

"I have to talk about it, Mark," I sighed. "That's why you're sleeping out here, right? You've been waiting up for hours now." He nodded with a slight blush. "I know you too well," I grinned, messing his hair playfully, "Marcus."

He groaned with a laugh mixed in. "Don't call me that…Rodolfo!"

I chuckled, watching his face light up in giggles. I did love him, didn't I? The way I looked at him then proved it all in that one moment. God, I loved him. Inwardly, I berated myself for not telling him. All I'd have to do was lean forward and take him in my arms – he was begging me in his own silent way to do that, too. I could read his mind through those bright, dancing eyes. "You _have_ been waiting for hours, haven't you?" I whispered.

"Yeah…. Couldn't help it. It felt unresolved, and I hate that. You know that."

"Yeah, I do. Me too." I paused, standing to my feet and then taking a seat beside him, swinging my legs slowly as I leaned back slightly. "So, let's talk about it…."

Mark gulped – I could tell. "I'm not good with how I feel, Roger… I've never been."

"Me neither."

There was a somewhat awkward silence that followed. "So, if neither of us is good at this, let's just start from the beginning," Mark finally spoke up. "I like you, Roger…a lot…" His face reddened considerably and I felt mine do the same.

"Answer me straight, Mark," I began, unknowing turning enough so that we were both facing each other. "Are you gay?"

"Yes." It was straightforward and not thought out – completely honest. "I've been thinking about it for a few hours now, and I guess I've always known I was…but I just thought it would go away." He paused, leaning closer a bit, tenderly broaching his question. "Are you?"

"I…I don't know, Mark."

He nodded, leaning back again. "Okay."

God, was it that simple for him to accept? Didn't he care if I was or wasn't? Wouldn't it change everything, in the way he wanted it to, if I was? What the hell was wrong with him? "Just okay?" I found myself asking. "You don't care?"

"Well, yeah I care, Roger," he replied in all seriousness. "But, I can't force you to decide, as much as I think you already know more than you let on, even if I wanted to, which I do."

"I'm losin' you," I replied with a small smile.

He grinned, continuing, "I think you already know the answer to my question, but I don't want to make things bad between us because I forced you to decide and come out with it in two seconds." Shit! Did he just use the words 'come out' on purpose? He didn't seem to notice, if he had. "I don't want to have to force you to do anything. I just know that I am. I _know_ now." He judged my reaction. "Whenever you want to say, it's up to you."

I laughed lightly after a moment, shaking my head. "Mark Cohen – patient? What's happened?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. I guess since you've been gone, things've changed. I'm a lot different than when you left. I mean, I've been making films, writing screenplays (which'll probably never be produced), trying to –"

"I think I _am_ gay," I blurted out suddenly, interrupting his speech. There. Now it was said. No taking it back now, Roger. Why not go further? "I think I did enjoy…uhh…what happened earlier…" I dropped my head. There, it's all out in the open now! I watched him steadily, gauging his reaction. He was smiling softly.

"Really? I mean…uhh…Wow."

"Yeah," I muttered to myself. What the hell to do now?

He smirked at me, holding back laughter – I could tell. "So, you're gay, I'm gay…let's do somethin' about it." He nudged me, breaking out into laughter. I joined in, despite my being a bundle of nerves. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

"Things are fine," I replied, sitting on a small couch beside Collins, sipping a tea with him. "I'm smiling, happy, content…"

"And miserable," he interjected.

I nodded. "Shut up."

"What's wrong?"

I sighed. "I don't know how to tell you this." I paused, setting the tea down. "So, I'll just come out – literally – and say it: I'm gay."

He laughed, crossing his legs. "I know. Is that all?"

"_Is that all?_ What the hell…? How long have you known?" I asked worriedly.

"A while now. The way you and Roger look at each other is enough to send _my_ pulse racing." He chuckled happily. "So, why does that make you unhappy and depressed?"

"I'm not –"

"Mark, don't lie to me. I've seen your latest film – it's written all over the footage. You're close-ups of Roger's eyes, nose, mouth, cheekbones, his chest… C'mon, who are you trying to fool? I'm the biggest fag on the planet," he said with a grin. "I know my people. And you, my friend, have a good companion in your tough musician friend. So, what's the problem?"

I blushed, pushing my glasses up my nose. "I love him."

"Oh… Does he know?"

"I told him…but we kind of never talked about it again after the first night that we…uhh…told each other."

He nodded knowingly. "Well, tell him again."

"I'm afraid to."

"Why?"

"What if he doesn't want _me_? What if he's not really gay?"

"Mark, a person cannot take back gayness. It's just there, whether you like it or not. You can't change it, can't subdue it, can't rearrange it – it's eternally yours once you admit it's what's in your heart. Don't be so scared. Remember the Friends in Deed motto: 'forget regret or life is yours to miss.'"

I smiled softly. "So, I should tell him?"

He smacked me, rolling his eyes. "Yes!"

I sighed, grinning. "Okay."

"Tonight."

"No, I can't –"

"No arguing or putting it off, Mark – it has to be tonight or you'll never do it."

I took a deep breath in. "Okay…_tonight_."

PART II: **I Never Thought We'd Be Like This Again**

God help me! I've been standing here, leering over Roger for the past ten minutes, and I still haven't worked up enough courage to do what my heart is yearning to. All I want to do is kiss him – just one kiss! Is that so much to ask for? In fact, I'm begging for it. I pray he'll wake up and find me here, sweep me into his arms and take my face in his lithe fingers. Then again, if he wakes up and sees me gawking at him like the fool I am, he'll probably run out of the room screaming. I mean, I must look pretty creepy right about now. But, I can't help it. I've always been mesmerized by the way he looks when he's asleep – those pallid eyelids, lashes resting against his smooth cheeks, lips parted slightly as the gentle rise and fall of his chest captivates me into a hypnotized stupor…. Oh God, Mark, don't think so much into it. Just wake him so you can tell him you love him. Get it over with.

Instead, I leaned down, brushing some of his beautiful golden locks out of his eyes with quivering fingertips. He stirs slightly, moaning as I trace my forefinger down his cheek and jawbone; caressing that skin I've been fantasizing about so often recently. He shifts in the bed, and for a moment, I take my hand away, preparing to bolt from the room. I can't believe I've gone this far. Doing anything more would just be stupid…right?

"Mmm…Mimi…"

I faltered, letting my hand drop away. What the hell did he just say?

"Mimi…"

Do you hear that, Mark? I asked myself inwardly. That's the sound of your heart breaking. That's the sound of the affirmation that he doesn't love you. He's not yours.

I swallowed and took a quick step back, my face flushed red with anger – at him, at myself, at the world! Suddenly, the room was spinning around me and I tried to run away, but as I did, I tripped over some clothing of his that was strewn about over the floor, falling down with a loud thud. Looking up, I saw him, now in a sitting position, staring at me with confused eyes.

"Mark?" He cocked his head, sliding out of bed and offering me a hand to get up. "You okay? What are you doing in here?"

I felt my red face grow hotter and I ignored the welcomed gesture of his hand, getting up on my own, shaking off the clothing that was tangled in my feet. "I'm fine." I brushed myself off and began to retreat.

"Did you need something?" He grabbed my arm gently, forcing me to stop. "What's the matter? You look upset."

"No. I'm fine," I replied through gritted teeth, trying to pull myself free.

He shook his head, spinning me around to face him. Oh God – he was shirtless, as he always sleeps, and those muscles were rock hard on his chest and abdomen. I got a bit dizzy glancing at them and he steadied me. "What's the matter with you? You're not…drunk, are you?" He grinned slightly.

"No, I'm not. I'm fine, Roger. So, let me go."

"Well, first you're going to tell me why you were in my room. Then, you're going to tell me what's wrong –" I tried to speak, but he just continued, "—Because I know there's something wrong, Mark. And then, maybe, I'll let you go back to your room." He stared into my eyes, waiting for me to answer.

My mind reeled for some kind of excuse. 'Yes, Roger, I am drunk.' 'I just came to get a glass of water, and I took a wrong turn I guess.' 'I was going to ask you where you put that extra role of film of mine, since I can't find it.' Any of those would've worked, but instead I felt myself grow angrier under his caring glance. "How many times do I have to fuckin' say it, Roger? I'm fine!"

His eyes narrowed at me as he released my arm. He stood staring at me for a moment before he spoke. "How long have you been in here?"

"N-not long at all," I replied softly, now fear taking over. He's eventually going to figure out that you were the one touching him, Cohen! Brilliant!

"Mark, what did you want?" he asked, looking me over as he took a seat on the edge of the bed.

That image – so many times imprinted into my dreams lately – of him on the bed, looking up at me with his hair all tussled and his eyes sincere… Oh God, why couldn't I just stay calm? "I didn't want anything…. I was just…" I shook my head hurriedly. "Never mind."

"Mark!" he called after me as I tried to retreat. He was standing in the doorframe of his tiny bedroom, looking at me in confusion. "Can't you tell me what's wrong? Did something bad happen?"

I felt my lips tremble. I wanted to tell him – so badly that I was aching. "N-no…. Nothing." I turned away and began to walk to my room, only a step or two away.

"Mark?" 

I stopped in my tracks, nervous about how he'd whispered my name. "Huh?"

He approached me from behind and turned me gingerly to face him. "I had this dream…. And Mimi was there, stroking my cheek and breathing beside me." 

I shivered as I looked up into those big dark eyes of his. "Yeah…?"

"I swear I could feel her touch, even when I woke up and saw you sitting on the floor."

I gulped, nodding. "Uh huh…"

He stepped even closer and I felt the heat from his muscular body repelling against the thin clothing I wore. "Something tells me that it wasn't all a dream, Mark. Something tells me that someone was actually touching me, because nothing feels that real – not even in dreams." He paused, watching me, and I knew then that he'd guessed what I'd been doing in his room. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"No, I wasn't doing anything, Roger, I swear," I whispered, swallowing and bowing my head in shame, my face crimson with anxiety. "Look, I was coming in to talk to you…but then I decided not to and I…well, then I wanted to…then I tripped and fell, and I was going to just sneak out and not bother you at all…but then, I wanted to…uhh…no, I mean…and that's it… I wasn't –"

"Mark?" His fingertips found my chin, turning my face up to him.

"Huh?" I asked, trembling with emotions.

"Shut up." He grinned, letting go of my chin and turning to go back into his room. "If you wanted to talk, why didn't you just say so?"

I nearly fell to my knees for they were so weak. God, was he torturing me now or what? He obviously knew, so what's the deal with the comedic relief? "Uh…well….I –"

"Don't worry about it." He smiled, brushing back some of that disheveled blonde hair. "So, talk."

I shook my head. "No." I was angry again. We'd been so damn close a moment ago to what I'd wanted in the first place, and then he had to go and ruin it by joking with me and fuckin' jerkin' me around! I wasn't about to sit down and talk now. Not after that. "I'm tired now."

He frowned. "Look, Mark, just tell me what it is you wanted to say to me. It's gotta be something serious or else you wouldn't be so fussy about it."

"I'm not…fussy!" I cried.

"Mark, your face is redder than the blood in my veins, you're stumbling around like the room's floating, and you're stuttering and quiet and anxious – either something's wrong or you're drunk. Which is it?"

"Neither," I retorted, glaring at him. What the hell does he know about it?

"Yeah, and you take that tone with me because you're _not_ mad. Uh huh." He folded his arms. "Why can't you just talk to me? I'm trying to help."

"Look, it's nothing. Forget it, okay?" I almost pleaded. "You're tired, I'm tired – this'll never accomplish anything. We'll just get into another fight, or we'll say something that we don't mean and we'll regret it later, or something will happen that we'll –"

"Did you want to talk about…us?" he asked, gauging my reaction.

My voice had been cut short and I wasn't about to continue. He knew. Damn it, he knew. "Uhh…I –"

"'Cause I did."

"Me too," I replied softly, my appearance changing a bit.

His gaze dropped to the floor and he sighed. "I don't know where to begin, Mark…"

"Tell me why you whispered Mimi's name in your sleep," I growled angrily. Hurt filled my quivering voice before I knew I'd said the words.

"What?" He paused, looking at me in understanding. "So you _were_ touching me…" I nodded. "And I said Mimi's name…?" Another nod. He sighed, moving over to stand beside me, helplessly gesturing. "Look Mark, I can't help what I say in my sleep…. I did love Mimi, I can't take that back. She'll always have a piece of my heart, and so will April and –" I tried to retreat, but he caught me roughly with both hands on my shoulders, making sure I stood still, "—And so do you, Mark."

I whimpered, meeting his gaze slowly. "I do?"

"What the hell did you think, Mark? That I was lying when I said that I enjoyed how we were the other night? God, don't you know that the only thing I've been thinking about lately is how much I'm attracted to you?"

"R-really?" My voice was as weak as my knees now.

"How much I think about you and me… How much I've dreamt about us – together? And how much I just want to tell you that…that I….Oh God…" He backed away, shaking his head. "I can't say it."

I felt hurt as I followed him. "Then I will: I love you, Roger…." It felt so good to say again! My heart trembled as it raced frantically with every pulsating beat. "I love you." I sighed in relief. It was so easy once I said it. The anxiety, the unknowing, the depression, the fear – all gone with three little words! "Roger, I love you."

"Please, don't say that anymore," he growled softly, confused. "I can't say it back, Mark. I can't…"

"Why not?"

"Everyone who I've ever loved leaves me. I killed Mimi by telling her I loved her. I killed April the same way. I don't want to lose you, Mark… Don't make me say it."

I released a breath, swallowing as I let my head fall a bit. "I-I won't." I let my eyes rise slowly to meet his gaze as I stepped up to him. "Roger?"

"Huh?"

"Kiss me." I was begging now. I knew it would come to this. I kept reminding myself that he didn't love me, that he couldn't even say those words to my face, and that he was too scared for me to do this, but I couldn't help it. I caressed his cheek gently, running my stretched fingers through his hair as I watched his beautiful eyes close. He didn't say anything, but I could feel him moving closer. I felt his arms rise awkwardly as he tried to place them around my waist, then on my shoulders, and then they fell limply to his sides with a sigh of frustration as he moved back a step.

"I can't…"

I felt my heart breaking. Did he really not want me to kiss him? Didn't he just say he was dreaming about how we could be together? Didn't he want this as much as I did? "Roger, I'm scared enough for the both of us," I commented quietly, trying to be humorous, but it came out empty, for I was lacking that emotion at that moment. "Just tell me you want to… I need to hear it."

He seemed to shiver from where he stood as he took another step back, turning away. "Jesus, Mark," he breathed, running his hands through his hair with a low noise that mimicked a groan. "You know I do."

"No, I don't know," I retorted, moving to stand behind him. I felt my heart racing out of my chest. Could I do this? I had to. If I weren't brave about it, how would I ever know what he felt? I let my arms wrap around his stomach as I pressed my chest against his bare back. I felt him moan softly and his muscles twitched. "Tell me, please, Roger. Just tell me that you do want to love me. I can't take the not knowing." I was enthralled with the sensation of his skin against mine, and I was drunk on his scent – a smell I thought I'd known so well until now when it changed completely before me, creating a vibrant new perfume-like fragrance that I thoroughly enjoyed. I let my hands run over the hard muscles of his chest and I felt him lean back against me, as he turned his head back to look at me with eyes that were for once as innocent as mine! Oh, how I love that look. How I'll always remember it.

"Mark…." It was like music to my ears as I felt his hands settle over mine and we rocked back and forth, swaying as if we were in some dance. "Mark, I do want to love you. God, you don't know how much…"

I rested my head on his shoulder, leaning further against him. I was out of my mind, wasn't I? Look at the way we were – he: half naked and scared to death, and me: scared to death yet trying to lead like I knew what I was doing, when in reality I was so naïve to everything about this situation. "I'm not going to leave you, Roger. I can't – not now that I've realized what my love for you is. It's more than a friendship, which is what we always thought it was. It's more than the closeness that brothers share. It's more than anything I've ever felt for anyone."

He smiled slightly. "Even Maureen?"  
I laughed. "Even Maureen."

He sighed gently, closing his eyes. Then, I did something that I never thought I'd be brave enough to do. I moved one of my hands up to his face, turning it so that his head was craned towards me, and I kissed him. I'll never – not in a million lifetimes – forget the sensation of his hard lips against mine. I let my hand steady his face so that we were pressed lightly against each other. Just as the kiss began to deepen, he pulled away, stalking over to a corner. I stood, swallowing – nervous again. Once again, bravo, Mark! Way to ruin the friendship….

"Roger?"

"Huh?"

"What's wrong?" I crept up behind him.

"No," he said, stopping me in my tracks. "Just…_don't_, okay?" He folded his arms, leaning against the wall a little. Then, suddenly, he turned and looked at me – sadness pouring from his very being. I reached out, offering to console him, but before I could do anything, he graced past me and into his room, closing the door behind him.

I dropped into a folding chair, glancing over at his door with melancholy gazes. Why didn't he just admit he loved me? I felt extremely confused, not only by my dominant behavior but by his despairing visage that I had seen as he walked off. What was eating away at him?

***See, AlterMe01: I promised I'd post. lol***

***More soon, kiddies, as soon as I figure out where I'm taking this…***


	3. Changes

CHAPTER III: **Changes**

Roger awoke in a sort of stupor, his body positioned in an eagle spread, taking up the entire mattress. His hair was tussled, his eyes red and puffy, and his muscles ached from the shifting during the night – he'd attempted to get comfortable and sleep, but to no avail. His dreams – both waking and sleeping – were filled with Mark. He berated and cursed himself for them, but what could he do? Even his unconscious mind was thinking of Mark and everything that had happened between them recently, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was powerless to stop it.

Stretching lazily, he yawned, letting himself blink away watering eyes a few times before he really woke up. He hadn't had a good night's sleep at all; it was far from that. He must have switched poses a hundred times before he finally dozed off, tossing and turning nonetheless after his eyes closed in a tormented sleep, filled with visions of things he couldn't restrain and memories he thought he'd forgotten – those best left alone.

Languidly, Roger lifted himself from the soft cushions and managed the strength to throw a shirt over his head. He glanced at his watch on the floor: 11:30am? His eyes narrowed a bit in confusion. He was usually awake before this. Then, the thought hit him – Mark usually woke him. He'd locked the door. Groaning, he ran his hands through his hair, unfolding his throbbing physique in the process. With a sigh, he gave up fully stretching his limbs and began to make his way out of his room.

Pushing the door open, he looked around, half expecting to see Mark standing as he'd left him, still staring after him, or perhaps running towards him with open arms, begging to hold him, or even filming – something he'd too often woken up to. However, he was shocked to find Mark absent from the room, his camera gone as well. Surveying with his eyes, he took a few steps to Mark's room and found it empty as well. He frowned. Where did Mark go? He was never one to go somewhere without saying something. Usually, he'd leave a note, a voice message from wherever he'd gone to, a post-it, an address and phone number, etc.

However unlike Mark this was, Roger tried to put it out of his mind. Mark had just gone out for…breakfast? Not without money he didn't. Collins! Yes, of course: Collins took him out to breakfast…. No, Collins was broke, too. And Collins would have wakened Roger to take him out as well, otherwise. Benny? Did Benny come back? Roger scoffed at this thought – Benny wouldn't be seen in public with them – not even for breakfast. Besides, it was lunchtime, wasn't it? Not that the hours of the day really mattered when time was irrelevant, though. Maybe Maureen and Joanne were fighting. Yes, that was a definite possibility. Maureen probably called, begging Mark to come over and talk to her, and, knowing Mark, he'd jumped at the chance to be near her. A twinge of jealousy was sparked then, at the thought of Maureen holding Mark in her arms, stroking his hair like a puppy. He groaned. It definitely wasn't Maureen either. Then, where the hell did Mark go?

Roger ridiculed his own feelings, laughing bitterly at how he twisted what little facts he'd found to some kind of horrifying notion that something was wrong. Mark had gone out. That was all. 

But, he couldn't help but feel he'd done everything wrong last night. He'd pushed the affection he so craved away without another thought. No, that wasn't entirely true. He'd thought about it – too long for his own good, in fact. There was always the scary fact hovering above his head that he was HIV-positive. It wasn't going to go away. Mark seemed not to notice that little fact at all, even when they were so close and intimate last night. Roger's eyes fell to a close and he found himself falling into a folding chair, breathing irregularly.

God, how he'd wanted to kiss Mark back – to wind his fingers through that intangible hair, to gaze into those beautiful eyes, and to let his body be pressed close to his best friend and the only man he'd ever felt this way about. How he'd wanted to listen to his breath – that gentle, sweetly perfumed fragrance of wind that wisped so often against his cheek. He longed to simply stand beside Mark and hold him close; to feel his heartbeat and trace his pallid skin….

And yet, he'd pulled away.

Roger's eyes shot open and he swallowed, licking his now dry lips, releasing a long-held breath. He was letting his mind wander to what he wanted and not what he could do, once again.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Mark appeared, striding in as if he hadn't given the situation last night a moment's thought. But, of course, that was far from the truth – it was all he'd thought about, as it was all he ever thought about.

"Hey, Roger," he sang, setting his camera on the table and giving him a smile that said 'everything's fine'. "What's up?"

"Uhh…nothing." Roger had to admit; he was caught off-guard by this new, seemingly uncaring side of Mark Cohen. "You?"

"Nothin', either," he replied, taking a seat beside him, crossing his legs Indian-style and reminding Roger of a little child once again.

"So, where'd you go? You didn't wake me." His voice didn't show any signs of the regret of what he'd done – or better put: did not do – last night. "I was worried –"

"Oh, geez," Mark cried, rolling his eyes and brushing back his hair, "you shouldn't have been worrying. I mean, c'mon, where could I possibly go off to?"

"That's what I'm asking. Where'd you go?" His voice rose just slightly, but it still seemed not to reach the boy beside him.

"Nowhere." He shrugged, yawning. "But, I'm sorry I didn't wake you. I guess I just forgot. I mean, I do have other things to do besides baby-sit you, right?" He laughed to himself, popping out of his seat and making his way into the kitchen area, which consisted of only a small cupboard now. Fishing through it, he noted the odd stares from Roger. "What's the matter with you?"  
Roger shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "What? Oh, nothing."

Mark smirked, returning to Roger's side with a bag of Lays Potato Chips, messing his hair as he walked by. "You look tired, sleepy head." He munched on them, falling into the chair as he propped his legs up on another, comfortably. "Didn't get enough sleep?"

Roger stared at Mark, completely and utterly bewildered as he fixed his hair where Mark had tussled it. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he found himself asking, although he didn't want to speak at all. "What the hell…?" He couldn't even finish his sentence. Watching Mark nibble away at each chip drove him mad.

Mark made a face, giving him an odd look that resembled forced misunderstanding. "What do you mean?"

"You know what the fuck I mean, Mark," Roger found himself yelling.

Mark rolled his eyes, tossing another chip in his mouth. "Someone didn't get enough sleep, I guess." He smirked. "Either that or you woke up on the wrong side of the bed." Chuckling, Mark's eyes searched through the bag as he reached inside, unaware that Roger was grimacing at him. "Y'know, sometimes I just think you are so much like –" Suddenly, without warning, the bag of chips was shoved out of his hands, strewn across the floor. "What the –"

"Are you doing this to piss me off, Mark, 'cause it's working if you are," Roger growled, looking down on the tiny form of Mark, who, for one, was not recoiling from the musician's dangerous stance.

"What are you talking about?" Mark asked, still keeping with the innocent demeanor.

Roger groaned, stalking off. "Fine, Mark."

"_What_?"

"Fuck off… I don't need this. I was gonna talk, but it looks like –"

"Maybe I don't _wanna_ talk," Mark interrupted, so softly that Roger barely heard. But, he heard, nonetheless. It was bitter and full of hate, but at least it was something.

"What was that?"

"What?" Mark looked up, startled, the uncaring gaze faltering. "Nothing." He was loosing it, slowly but surely. "I…uhh… What did you want to talk about?"

Roger composed himself a bit before taking a few steps towards the filmmaker. "I was going to apologize –"

"For what?" Mark cut him off, purposely.

Roger's eyes narrowed. "For forgetting to water the plants," he retorted, sarcasm dripping from each word. "Jesus, Mark, what do you think – for last night."

"What about last night?" Mark continued. He knew he was pushing it by acting this way, but he wanted to get something out of Roger, and he wasn't about to stop until he did.

Roger sighed helplessly, losing his mind. He knew what Mark was doing to him, but he couldn't do a thing about it, because it was working. "Y'know, I don't need this from you, Mark, and –"

"Don't need what from me?" Mark couldn't keep the hurt from his voice, faltering in his plan. He couldn't hide it forever – he was upset, angry, even wounded by the events last night.

"This bullshit!" he cried, clenching his fists to keep from hitting something – or worse: someone. "I'm trying to apologize here, damn it."

Mark sighed, his gaze dropping as he shrugged. "Great. Another apology – add it to the list, Roger."

"What?"

"Add it to the list," he replied, articulating every word slowly. "It's a fairly long one, though, so you might need to start a new sheet of paper." Mark stood up and retrieved his camera, toying with it as he resumed his seat, back towards Roger now.

"Fuck you…" he breathed angrily, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah, that's right – that's your favorite phrase, right? Poor, poor Roger is always saying 'fuck you', but he really needs that term turned around to him." He held up the camera, turning it on and facing it towards the musician. "Smile Roger, your secret's out."

Roger growled, "What the hell do you –"

"You're scared of me."

"Huh?"

"Just admit it, Roger," Mark continued, swinging his legs around the chair so that his chest rested against the back of it and his legs straddled either side, resting his elbows on the top while maintaining his recording, "you're afraid of me."

"Why the hell would I –"

"Because I said what I did last night – and meant every word of it." He looked to Roger with emotion-filled eyes. "I love you. And I'll never take it back. You're scared that I will, or that I won't – either way, you're petrified, because I hold all the power now: I can give you pain or I can give you pleasure – not that you'll take either one when offered, but still, I have that influence; and that worries you. Doesn't it?"

"Fuck –"

Mark laughed, interrupting him, "Fuck you. Seems to be the only two words you know lately." His eyes glared now. "Tell me I'm lying, Roger. Tell me you're not afraid of me. Tell me I'm wrong and that you're not terrified to get close to me." He saw Roger's shiver and shook his head, gesturing towards him, still filming. "See? You can't even stand the thought of wrapping your arms around me, can you? You can't even comprehend the notion that someone might love you like I do, right? Goddamn it, Roger, just tell me I'm lying! Just tell me."

"You know I can't, damn it!" Roger cried suddenly, moving forward and pushing Mark's camera out of his hands. It landed on the floor with a thud, the little red light wavering slightly. "You know you're fuckin' right, so why torture me? Yes, I'm scared! I'm so terrified that I didn't even sleep last night. All I could think about was going back out there and taking you in my arms – forgetting I ever said no."

"So, why didn't you come back out?" Mark asked, more quietly now. "I was out there for a good hour or so, hoping you'd do the same thing. Finally I just gave up. Not that you ever take initiative anymore. Heaven forbid you actually _do_ something that'll benefit yourself."

Roger faltered for words. He would've said 'fuck you', but he reconsidered, noting just how right Mark was. He fumbled, stuttering, "Y'know, you don't have to –"

"Look, is this little talk over yet? I've got things to do today, so if we can move this along, I'd be very appreciative."

Roger clenched his jaw tightly, bowing his head and turning his back on Mark. "Yeah. We're done here. Bye."

"See ya." Mark had to fight to keep the sadness out of his voice. This was all for Roger's own goodness, right? Suddenly, it seemed that maybe he was being too cruel. Maybe he should show some emotion, take some more initiative, maybe push him father…but no. Mark walked off instead, towards the door, picking up his camera and dusting it off on the way. Before he even opened the door, he felt hands roughly turning him back. "Roger, what are you –" His words were silenced with a tender, albeit awkward, kiss as he felt the musician's arms wrapping desperately around his back; one pressed against his spine timidly. After a few moments that seemed to spin in Mark's head for an eternity, he pulled away, looking up into those lovely eyes. "Roger…?"

"Huh?" he replied, breathless and somewhat dizzied.

"Say it." Mark smiled softly, toying with a bit of those long tendrils. "Please…?"

Roger shivered, his gaze anxiously meeting Mark's. "I-I love you."

Mark smiled. "I love you, too."

***Yes, still more to come!!! It's not over 'til I say it is! lol***


End file.
